BAU Storytellers
by SuperCriminalWho
Summary: My (eventually) long, fleshed out headcanons about the BAU intended to run almost parallel to the series itself. Reid focused, but all are involved, and examined. I love character exploration. It's better than it sounds, and will update frequently. Possible pairings. Eventual warnings will include drug, alcohol, eating disorders, & rape. But pairings & warnings are much later.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is my first fic in a long, long while. Please be as kind as you can, although constructive critique is appreciated. It is basically one HUGE LONG (it will be huge and long) headcanon that I have for the series which runs semi parallel to it from the beginning (although this first few bits will be from Spencer's arrival, just observations from his POV before the introduction of Elle to the team). Primarily it will be from Spencer's perspective if it revolves around another character, and if it revolves around spencer himself it will be a mix of his and other's POV's about him. I tend to like/relate to/be most interested in Reid, so obviously he is who I will address the most in this piece but it will be epic and long and at times seemingly OOC and at times very in character. Because it is really how I interpret these characters and what their lives might be like with each other and themselves outside of casework. I will sometimes address canon cases and/or add to canon stories (missing scenes, etc). I have no interest in creating cases of my own, for this particular fic. There may be occasional romantic things, I am honestly not certain. Because this is going to be as much one lengthy headcanon as I can make it, the most likely pairings that you might might see here but honestly will NOT see until much later chapters are Reid/Morgan (intermittent), Garcia/JJ (brief), Prentiss/Morgan (brief), Reid/Hotch (intermittent, but mostly because it adds to particular storylines I want to address). But, these won't show up for a while, and things may end up going differently.

DISCLAIMER TIME: I don't own these characters, CM, or CBS. If I did, this is how it would have gone. But I don't, and I therefore apologize to whoever does own all these things for probably butchering their vision.

****VERY IMPORTANT TRIGGER WARNING**** Not anytime soon, but in assorted later chapters I plan on dealing with the topics of: Drugs, Alcohol, Rape, Eating Disorders (all types), Self Harm, Mental Illness. These will not be addressed in the first few topics at least and each will be eased into at it's own time. I will post individual warnings on chapters for what they may contain. But I wanted a blanket statement that a lot of this will be interesting, nice, fun bits of their relationships at the BAU, but even more of it will be angst, struggle, and fear they face at the BAU. So, just be aware.

Without further ado…

It was Gideon who really took me under his wing my first day at the BAU. I had known him in casual passing for a while; he was the one who had recruited me originally. When I arrived, in my neatest (okay, least soiled) sweater vest, that first morning at the BAU, I can best liken the change in atmosphere between us to the difference in that of Earth and Pluto. Whereas Earth is perfectly conducive to habitability, the small atmosphere of Pluto contains highly toxic levels of carbon monoxide, and is virtually opposite to any place we know. Not… Not that either state of Gideon and my relationship was toxic, simply an explanation for my own metaphor. Often the mistake is made that I spew facts to irritate, or more appropriately as the 'new' 'young' one, impress those within earshot. It's not. I think in facts, recite them to myself as part of my inner monologue, even. One of my many idiosyncrasies.

But, back to Gideon… I showed up, my scraggly hair in a slightly greasy comb-over, glasses I was repeatedly berated about being 'the wrong shape for my face', and khaki slacks (the nicest trousers I owned), and fully expected the customary, polite, nod of 'hello' or 'approval', or whatever Gideon tried to express with that nod and half smile. At times, he had shaken my hand, quickly, but perhaps more gently than one would expect of a man in his position. These occasions were rare, however, and usually only followed a major accomplishment, which I assumed meant of conveyed approval. Today, I expected one of those gestures. I received neither.

Instead, He took me firmly by one hand, and with the other patted my left shoulder once before gripping it at my collarbone. His odd half smile emitted something resembling warmth. If I weren't overstepping in saying so, I might even call it a three-quarter smile. He enunciated four words as though they were the most important he'd ever spoken, "Welcome to the B.A.U," and pointed me towards the only desk in the room not inundated by clutter.

His voice always sounded like a grandfather addressing a small child. When we first crossed paths when I was young myself and obtaining my very first degree, I believed it was his way of speaking to people like _me_… Intelligent, but naïve; promising, but inexperienced. It's now been 10 minutes since my arrival, and I can provide sufficient evidence to the reassuring fact that it is not people like _me_ he's talking to… It's people like _everyone_. Apparently, Gideon addresses everyone as though they were personally important to him, at least, with reference to his vocal tone and speech patterns. It's something I will file away him, I find it endearing, if not useful.

"Well aren't you a pretty thing, boy wonder."

What – no, who – the heck was that? I hope not a colleague; if they already think so little of me maybe it's for the best if I just go. No, I worked hard enough to get here… I get it, I'm young, gawky, I haven't cut my hair in months. In fairness, that is mostly an issue of forgetfulness, and not a fashion statement. The thought of having my hair cut simply doesn't occur to me and would be financially irresponsible with the bills I pay for my mom's care. And I'm not cutting it myself… Not after I attempted to cut my own hair when I was twelve years old, not only was I constantly maligned by my classmates for being well below their ages, but for a month they called me Spencer 'can Reid just fine but don't ask him to cut hair'. Which seems like a crappy insult, because it doesn't really roll off the tongue, nor is it particularly clever, barring the slight stab at my intelligence, but it is actually a brilliant insult. It's brilliant because, despite the content lacking, it was a mouthful. Took a long time to say, hence prolonging the agony of hearing it. All the time.

"I won't make that mistake again" I muttered spitefully. Under my breath, I thought.

"What?" Came a bemused and warm seeming reply from the same direction as before.

Shit. I thought I had muffled that sentence. Heck, I thought he'd gone anyway.

I started by turning my head very slightly, and then turned it back to my empty desk and imaginary paperwork. Deciding that it would be easiest to swivel my chair, then work on actually raising my face to his (at least, it sounded like a 'him'… God, I hoped it wasn't Aaron Hotchner. From what I'd heard about him, a bad first impression was likely to be your last impression) I began to turn around at tortoise speed. The average speed for a giant tortoise is approximately .17 miles per hour, so it really is quite slow. While a popular parable for children, a tortoise could never in reality beat a hare in a race, and the idea that either have the intelligence level to conceptualize the race in the first place is preposterous. I've never understood it. Oh look, my chair has swiveled while I was lost in thought and I've come face to shoes with the smooth, teasing, but bordering on flirtatious voice behind me. Slowly, knowing the look of embarrassment must be almost painstaking; I lift my suddenly very heavy head to meet my new workmate. His body borders on perfection, with a smile to match. His skin smooth and a light black tone, hair shorn close to his head. I think it's the hair that makes me think possibly ex-military? Or perhaps that's just a fantasy I'm having.

Shit, not a good way to start, Spencer, _not a good way to start._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Please see chapter 1 author's note, because it was long and in depth and I don't want to write it all back out.

NEW INFO BEFORE THIS CHAPTER: This is from Derek Morgan's POV, and starts off with a similar situation that we ended off at, but actually takes place two weeks and one case later. No warnings for this particular chapter.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own. Wish, but do not.

Also, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU ALL for being so incredible and favoriting/following the story. I am truly amazed that you all read and liked it. If I could ask a teensy weensy favour, I would LOVE it if you could review, OR just PM me your thoughts so far. Just because it is always nice, and helpful to receive feedback!

Now then, onwards!

Sitting at my desk, I mused over my new colleague. I'm not sure if it was the 'boy wonder' bit, or that I called him out on his 'pretty' features so early in the conversation, but I think I scared this Dr. Reid off. It has been nearly two weeks since our first, admittedly awkward, encounter. Since then, I've gotten a few clipped greetings, sideways glances that seemed somewhere between shifty and paranoid, and quickly appearing and disappearing expressions which could only be called grimaces. The poor kid, almost gotta feel bad for him. Not bad enough to let up on my usual charm and flirt technique, but bad enough to sit here and think about why the kid is the way he is. Maybe it's his age.

I saw a lot of young guys back with the Chicago PD… They came, they either advanced up the ranks or left quickly. It was too much for a lot of them. And believe me, these were hard kids. This gangly ghost of a guy at the desk across from mine couldn't take them in any form of combat. Except, clearly, a math quiz.

And I watched them, one by one, crumble under the pressure, the weight of it too much. Something about him, though… It's the eyes. I learned real young about eyes and how to read age in them. His don't match his face. They hardly match themselves, at times, which frightens me to a point. If I didn't know any better ,I'd say that genius were hiding something. He sometimes looks so intense, not old I guess, his eyes just have a ferocity that belies his delicate face. When he's analyzing on cases, that's when I've seen it. His base eye emotion is as simple as the bland clothes he wears. They understand in a comprehending, not empathetic, sort of way.

But every once in a while, they do look young. Not just age young, like those beat cops I used to see, who were physically young but seasoned. He has doe eyes. There is no better way to say it. I mean, they are sweet, and big, and brown… and naïve. So, so very inexperienced. I can tell that the closest he has come to crime his whole life is the undoubtedly merciless teasing he received from every classmate ever. But that doesn't make you harder, more conditioned to it. That'll only make the poor kid sweeter.

_Morgan get back to your own work, _I berate myself, _you can harass the pretty boy on the next case._

_**Pretty boy…**_

You know, it's not derogatory. Leastways, I don't mean it that way. Maybe he won't take it that way. It's just what I keep coming back to. Pretty. What, he is pretty. I mean, I'm handsome, girls thing I'm attractive. But I've always seen myself as… alluring, charming, suave… Even debonair. Although I'd grant Hotch debonair before I'd give it to myself, in all honesty. That man can carry off a suit and a scowl… More power to him. But this guy. Only word that comes to mind is pretty. His face isn't cute, despite being boyish… Too many angles - cheekbones that could cut glass, oversized lips that frame a very narrow chin, sunken eyes but huge irises. His skin is stretched so tightly across his face one might wonder whether plastic surgery was at play, though any profiler could quickly tell that it was actually just a severe lack of subcutaneous fat causing that effect.

See, sometimes I do know good words. I feel stereotyped, by UNSUBS and co-workers alike. I'm the flirt, and the enforcer. But I know words like subcutaneous, and debonair. And, if I ever need them, I will not hesitate to pull them out of my arsenal. Shock the hell out of everyone with my semi-intelligence. Even pretty boy.

Yes, pretty boy. Sorry kid, but it keeps coming back to me, which can only mean one thing. That nickname is going to stick around, my (eventual) buddy. From what I can tell, so will you.

"Not sure if I ever said it, but, uh, welcome to the team. You were good on that case last week, you know." I offer, in a less overbearing way than my usual approach.

His head shakes a bit involuntarily in surprise, and his hair flops lazily in front of his eye. He looks up quizzically, and shoves the stray lock behind one ear that's as awkward as the rest of him. But, at least he's making eye contact. I'm not sure I like it, it makes his dark circles give his face a much less healthy look when they're in full view, but he's no less pretty.

"Yeah. I mean, uh, no. I mean, yeah, uh, thanks. Thanks, is what I mean." He looks flustered, I'm not sure if it's because of what I said, or what he did, but that was cleared up quickly, "I'm uh, I'm smarter than I speak, sometimes. I'm awkward. Did you know the lightest organ in the human body is the lung? See, facts, I'm good at facts."

He shuffles in his seat. He's wearing three shirts and still manages to look breakable. After that mess of a greeting, he sounds so vulnerable. Better go easy.

"I'll remember that. Just wanted to say good work, glad to have you on the team…" I pause for a second. He lets out a sigh of relief and turns back to his desk fluidly. I can't resist, "… Pretty boy."

When I hear his pencil tip break in what I would guess is just surprise, certainly not anger, I know he's heard me. Something about it makes me grin, wide.


End file.
